


Say Nothing of the Dog and the Dying

by mellish



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Backstory, Growing Up, Pre-Slash, messing with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-26
Updated: 2009-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes too long for Ciel to realize who Sebastian resembles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Nothing of the Dog and the Dying

Ciel always hates it when they say he has his mother’s eyes, but he knows enough about propriety never to frown when they do. They offer him sympathetic smiles, the women sometimes sliding their hands down his cheek, their cold touch trailing like water across his skin. It isn’t even the way they say it, with a faraway glaze in their eyes (and when he was younger, so much teasing – _Are you sure this is your son, and not your daughter?_ ), or the simpering familiarity with which they hope to gain Ciel’s good graces. It’s the very sentiment, the untruth of it, like spitting at her portrait. His mother never had the sharp look that he faces in the mirror. His mother never offered up one eye to hell.

He doesn’t want anything of himself to be compared to her, not even in memory – some slight significance might slip down into the fortresses of his heart ( _my forbears_ , he’d tell Sebastian. _Don’t call them anything else_ ,) and tarnish her immaculate smile. Sometimes he thinks he can bear to recall them, but as they grow clearer in his mind he sees how their teeth are stained red, their eyes turning white, and he has to pull himself out of there and lock up all the doors again.

"She was very beautiful, your mother." Count – Devon, is it? – swills the words around in his mouth like wine. Ciel wonders how this particular man was brushed off. What kind words of rejection did his mother use, trying not to hurt him? "You have her eyes, you know."

"Do I?" Ciel answers politely, then changes the subject.

\---

"You don’t really look like that," he mutters one day, dabbing a quill into ink and signing his name across the bottom of their latest order for stuffed bears.

"Pardon?"

"They don’t look like how they’re imagined at all, do they?"

"Are you talking to yourself?"

"Demons, Sebastian!" He hates always having to spell it out – it is some other human thing that amuses, undoubtedly. He knows Sebastian loves the sound of words (something he had no need of before), the way things so simple can destroy. The way they can never be taken back. "In all the paintings, all the sculptures, all the plays written about them. You don’t look anything like that, do you?" Furled wings and horned fingers clutched around a pitchfork, tails lashing – things out of folk tales, holy tales. Ciel has read the stories before; he knows all about Sin and Pride and The Fall. That demons are like angels, only more beautiful.

"I look the way you want me to, and no other." Sebastian’s smile is perfectly serene, unchanging as he goes through the shelves, dusting books lazily.

"What do you really look like?"

Again the images flash through Ciel’s mind. Organs spilling out, raw and bloody. Fangs. Red flames, stretching to fill the canvas in all directions.

"You’ll have to wait to find out, won’t you?" His face doesn’t change, but there is sudden laughter beneath his words, chilling the air between them.

\---

It takes him too long to realize who Sebastian resembles – it isn’t something he really _thought_ about, shivering those first few days back to life, hurting all over, afraid to close his eyes. He would feel their rough hands grazing his skin, the women’s nails, the sweat of the men’s palms, travelling over his navel, digging grooves into his back. Hear their laughter, all the individual tones melting into something that leered and foamed. When Sebastian had pulled him off the altar, asking for better instructions, he had shuddered violently at the contact, still half-delirious with pain. (If he remembers correctly – which is unlikely, but for some reason the image comes attached to the memory, like a bad aftertaste – Sebastian had smiled at the reaction, almost apologetically.)

Ciel had whispered, choked and shivery, "Don’t touch me."

Sebastian didn’t even bother to say it was impossible – he’d simply bundled Ciel up, all skin, bones and bloodstained rags ("Such a tiny, fragile master," he’d breathed, nearly disbelieving), and saved him.

 _I saved myself_ , Ciel thinks, later on. ( _You tell pretty lies_ , Sebastian’s eyes seem to say.)

Madame Red's initial reaction should have given it away – her widening pupils, the hitch of breath in her throat. But she was too distracted by Ciel’s return, and her concern about levels of society kept her from noticing the similarities further. "He’s my butler," Ciel said, and she gave the demon one more thoughtful glance, before continuing to fawn over her nephew, loudly exclaiming how he had returned from the living dead ("Alone?" she not quite asked, and Ciel nodded).

It is days later, passing by the big portrait in the hallway – charred around the edges but still, for the most part, unharmed – that Ciel _sees_. It’s so obvious that he feels stupid for not noticing sooner, and it doesn’t matter that he hates looking at that painting, because he _should have known_. He pauses there for a long time, staring up at the noble nose, the gentle eyes, the hands clasped over the chair his mother sits in.

He orders for the painting to be removed that same day.

"Feeling sentimental?" Sebastian says the words deliberately, voice low with dark humor. The sneer in his question makes Ciel grow cold with rage, his throat burning to reply. He doesn’t know yet that all this provocation is something the demon does for fun. What he does know is that he won’t let a retort be coaxed out of him, and he stomps away with the loudest steps he can muster.

"They don’t smile the same," he repeats fiercely to himself, still feeling Sebastian’s gaze on his back. It is a small comfort that after all their years together, this still holds true.

\---

His father’s mantle is so heavy, sometimes he feels his body might break beneath it, all his bones snapping, his finger turning blue as the ring squeezes tighter and tighter around it. The name Phantomhive turns into lead on his tongue, fills his mouth, trickles into his lungs and poisons him. _You’re just a child_ , someone faceless says, and suddenly there are hundreds of them, all laughing, touching him, _and you’ve got your mother’s beautiful eyes_ -

"You had a nightmare." Sebastian’s face is often too close when he finally wakes up to gasp for breath – he starts to fumble for the pistol beneath his pillow, but by then Sebastian is already running a cool hand over his forehead, making a sound somewhere between humming and shushing.

"It’s so heavy," Ciel hears himself whisper, not quite out of dreaming yet.

"I know," the demon answers, and his finger is like ice against Ciel’s lips.

\---

When he turns fourteen he decides that some routines are getting ridiculous, and he grumbles one night, in an ill temper, "You don’t have to put me to bed anymore." The mystery that day turned out to be a kidnapping, something that involved far too many wells and crying children. Sebastian has already pulled off one of Ciel’s boots – Ciel had several new pairs made for his last birthday, taking a secret pleasure in the fittings – and has rolled down one sock to his ankle.

Sebastian looks up, expression turning from puzzled to amused when he realizes what is being asked of him. He slides the boot away as Ciel hikes up his leg and says, "I can take it from here. And you don’t have to help me dress anymore, either."

Sebastian inclines his head, a smile threatening to turn into something quite else if it spreads any further. Ciel doesn’t pull his eyes away, daring the demon to spit out whatever comment is dancing on his tongue. But Sebastian merely puts away the boot and stands, dusting his hands.

"As you wish."

He walks over to the window and draws the curtains with deliberate grace, as if relishing the motion. Ciel turns away as he struggles to unlace his other boot, then slip quickly out of his clothes and into his new sleepwear, which includes a set of shorts that Lizzie bought him. They itch against his thighs and knees.

Sebastian’s face still holds a tinge of amusement when he picks up the candelabra and starts for the door, while Ciel shifts in his blankets and adjusts his pillow, fluffing it inexpertly.

"Shall I still bring your tea in the morning?"

There is a pause as Ciel considers the options: relying on sunlight. His internal body clock (hopelessly wrecked). The first few crashes resounding around the manor that will involve either Maylene breaking dishes or Finnian breaking _anything_ – "Do," he answers moodily. "Now please leave."

"Certainly, my lord. Goodnight." The demon’s answer holds the beginnings of a chuckle, but he manages to keep it in check. With a soft blowing sound and a wooden click, the room turns completely dark.

\---

He should have known some things would never change, beyond Bard’s ineptitude for cooking and Elizabeth’s fondness for anything with a touch of pink. Sixteen years old, and _still_ suffering from what feels like a cracked rib, a blackened eye, his muscles strained all over. He can’t even remember all these enemies’ names, anymore – the minute he finally manages to get rid of one, someone else appears, eager to threaten him or his Queen. The situation is more common than otherwise, from their wretched taunts to the blood sloshing in his mouth, suddenly melding with vomit as he gets punched in the gut.

He had _tried_ , really, broken someone’s jaw and sent one flying neatly against the alley wall, fired a clear shot at another so that the one of the captives got covered in blood as she broke away from him and ran, screaming for her life. But there were eight victims and twenty thugs, and suddenly one of them had pulled out a pistol and gotten Ciel in the knee – he dropped his gun, somebody else kicked it away from him – and it hadn’t been fair at all afterwards.

"My lord -"

"Get the girls, Sebastian!"

The butler does as he is told and escorts the victims out of there, taking half of the rogues with him. Ciel wonders if the demon had simply been watching his attempt the whole time, stepping in only when he was certain that Ciel had lost. Not that the indifference bothers him. Sebastian just doesn’t _understand_ flesh, no matter how much he takes pleasure in it – the sensations, the proximity, the way it tears so easily.

Ciel feels these new pains with a strange nostalgia as they gang up on him ( _"Why do they never kill?" he asked once, before. "It’s like they would rather just hurt." "Because humans are weak," Sebastian had answered, quickly adding, "I’m sorry, did that offend you?"_ ). After the first few blows he doesn’t even really feel it anymore. He waits patiently, eyes closed, until he hears the last strangled cry of "What the f-", the delicate crunch of bone, the splash of someone landing in a pool of blood.

"Can you stand?"

He cracks one eye open. "Do I _look_ like I can?"

Sebastian raises two fingers to his mouth, barely concealing a smile, as he crouches down and inspects the damage. He pulls the bullet out of Ciel’s knee with one deft motion – everything turns white for a moment, and Ciel grinds his teeth fiercely, resisting the urge to shout.

Sebastian sighs. "This will take _some_ effort to fix. You won’t be able to walk for awhile."

Ciel decides he’d rather not respond to that comment.

"Don’t look so upset, young master." Sebastian’s eyebrows are dipped into a neat little crinkle; his suit is all torn up. "This hasn’t happened in a while."

"I can see how you missed it," Ciel mutters back, too weak to be properly angry. "Are the women safe?"

"Of course."

After Sebastian has staunched the bleeding with the rags off someone’s body, he carries Ciel home. It’s as if the years have made no difference. How can he still slip so easily into the demon’s arms, doesn’t it hurt to carry him, doesn’t Sebastian have to strain even just a _little_? (No.) Ciel considers protesting, for a moment, but the exhaustion is overwhelming, the lightness of not having to carry his own weight so appealing – he almost doesn’t notice that they’re already in his bedroom and Sebastian’s fingers are at his throat, undoing his ribbon.

"What are you – stop that –"

"Don’t talk right now."

"I can – do it – myself," Ciel growls, struggling away from Sebastian’s hands, which have already stripped away what is left of his coat, and are starting to work on his shirt.

"That’s true," the demon answers genially. "But you needn’t trouble yourself at the moment. You’re injured, my lord," and he has finished the buttons, is now peeling off the cloth that sticks stubbornly to Ciel’s skin, freshly bruised and scraped all over, _it hurts it hurts of course it hurts_ ,

"Shut up," Ciel barks, before slumping backwards in regal defeat.

"You put up a good fight," Sebastian murmurs, but there is nothing soothing about his words.

\---

Most of the time Ciel is absolutely fair, but occasionally he feels a sudden terror and, almost without thinking, asks Sebastian to do things that should tire even a demon: banquets thrown in less than a day’s notice; the capture of a madman who has gotten away with half a day’s head start; finding Elizabeth’s pearl ring when she drops in into the ocean on their last visit to the seaside; rendering criminals immobile, but _not_ killing them, as per the Queen’s request.

Sebastian never fails, of course, and his eyes are always twinkling once everything has been accomplished and Ciel is the one looking stupid.

"Having fun, young master?"

Ciel ignores the smug look on the demon’s face and takes a long sip of wine. He can feel the demon enjoying the motion of his throat, how he watches with interest as his master finishes off the glass and sets it on the table. Ciel folds his fingers together, trying not to feel beaten, not to feel resigned – but it’s difficult, and the knowledge of how much Sebastian is the victor is starting to upset him, so that he suddenly finds himself saying:

"Did I ever tell you that I once had a dog named Sebastian? It was big and black." _And I loved it utterly._

"I consider that an unfortunate namesake," the butler replies, with a sniff of distaste.

Ciel stands. He walks over to his butler, slowly. The demon’s eyebrows arch up as he notices Ciel’s irritation.

"What exactly is this to you?"

"What is what?"

That demand for words, again, and Ciel always gives in too easily, always says what the demon wants to hear. Always has to raise the white flag, and he’s tired of it, of the pleasantries and charades and waking up to that agonizingly familiar voice first thing every morning, of the panic that smothers his thrill when he thinks of accomplishing revenge, of remembering how it feels to be cradled in the devil’s arms, the first and last times.

"Why don’t you ever get tired of it?"

"My lord?"

"You know what I mean!" Because it’s been years, and sometimes he wonders, _is all this worth it_ , but he doesn’t know who he’s asking it for, himself or the demon. It’s not sympathy, it’s – just been such a long time, and there are days now when he thinks he doesn’t want this. The idea kills him, makes him hate himself. "Why do you keep wearing that skin, with that stupid smile on your face? Why this –" he has started gesturing, that can’t be good, he needs to calm down. "Why are you – so -" _alive_ , he finds himself thinking, _but he isn’t human, he doesn’t even know what that means_. "- Accepting?" _Aren’t there days when you hate this, too?_

Now his hand is aching to rise, to strike the demon across the face (but it won’t do anything, it won’t make a difference, it’s pointless), and Sebastian is _still_ grinning. _Does he want it so badly? To eat of something freely given?_ "Why don’t you feel anything, why don’t you feel pain," And he can’t keep his hand back after all – it cracks against Sebastian’s face, more of a punch than a slap, really. The sound is like a gunshot. "Why don’t you hurt, why don’t you _suffer_ -"

"Don’t I?"

Sebastian catches the second blow halfway through the air, his fingers curling roughly around Ciel’s wrist.

"I think," he says, eyes narrowing, "That you’ve come up with some very false conclusions."

The air in the room suddenly turns to poison, a menace so thick and sinister that Ciel can no longer inhale. He jerks his hand away, heart thundering in his chest, and Sebastian lets him go, all pleasantry gone.

Silence. No motion, except for Sebastian’s eyes, travelling all over Ciel, stopping at random intervals – his lashes, his throat, his curled and shaking fists, the part of his knee where he had been struck by a bullet eight months earlier - the scar like a pale five-pointed star on his skin, beneath his clothes. There are no traces of a smile on the demon’s face now. Instead, his lips are set firmly with what might be consternation or frustration or – _no don’t think it, don’t_ – hunger.

Sebastian lifts one hand and reaches out as if to touch his master’s face. His fingers stop just short of Ciel’s chin, and Ciel struggles to breathe, suddenly aware of every bead of sweat sliding down his back.

"Some say, my lord, that waiting is the worst kind of suffering." Sebastian is almost whispering, his voice soft, like steam rising from tea. He lets one finger stroke the curve of Ciel’s face, taking his time with the motion. The seconds seem to drag their feet, slower and slower, until Sebastian finally drops his hand, a beatific smile splayed across his features once more. "Forgive me, young master. I am not as patient as you seem to think I am."

Ciel swallows, grateful for the involuntary movement that drags him back to life.

\---

When he first kisses Elizabeth – _really_ kisses, not play-kisses – he is reminded of the earth. Not because of anything in particular – maybe the faint taste of cookies lingering in her mouth, her warm breath and warmer blush as they part and she lets out an exhilarated sigh. He thinks about the cheerful sun shining over them and the afternoon tea Sebastian is preparing; about how one day he’ll go down on bended knee before this woman with a precious stone in hand, and how it’s all just formality. There isn’t really any other option.

That kiss, too, was just a formality, something to tide her over until they share one before the altar. Not that it had been unpleasant. Far from it. Ciel likes Lizzie, really, and the years have turned her into an attractive young lady, less prone to squealing and causing a mess. Even her taste for fine sweets has proven useful in developing the Funtom Company’s confectionaries; a more suitable match, if it existed, would be difficult to find. Besides, Elizabeth knows better than anyone how Ciel had also once loved life desperately. Perhaps it is that knowledge that keeps her so devoted to him. He has never asked.

It bothers him that Elizabeth is so bright and cheerful, because the idea that she will have to marry him and be widowed (undoubtedly) so soon afterwards is, well, cruel. He can already see the tears trickling down her face, her breath wasted on prayers that will never carry his soul to heaven. What can he tell her? That he has been digging his own grave for nine years already, knuckles blue from gripping the shovel too hard? That one day the dog will turn and bite its own master, canine teeth sinking down and down, deeper and deeper, until there isn’t any blood left to draw...

"Ciel?" There’s always something strange about his name, when she says it – as if it’s tender, like a child, like something she wants to wrap her arms around and cling to at night. He looks at her, but she’s staring desperately at the bush of flowers beside them, the afternoon sunlight casting a warm glow on her cheeks. "I’ve always kind of wanted to ask this...and I’ll understand if it’s something you can’t tell me, but..."

"What’s wrong?"

Her hands flutter like doves over her lap, folding over each other before settling down. "What is he to you?"

There is no accusation in her voice, nothing but affection and the first twinges of wifely anxiety, but Ciel feels exposed just the same. _What is he to you?_ The words are threats, laid bare like that, making the loneliness of his fate more immediate than ever. He thinks about the earth beneath them, all dust and bones and broken things, and he knows it has never been all right, not since his parents died and he made that decision to crawl out of hell – but he remembers the reasons why, and he doesn’t regret. There are better fates than sharing the same fiery pit as his tormentors. At least this way, he can relish their suffering.

And he knows Elizabeth can be understanding, but she can’t _understand_ , and he wouldn’t tell her even if she could. _This grave is mine alone._ Elizabeth belongs someplace else – sacred, secret, next to his mother and father and that dog he’d owned once, long ago, before someone tore it apart with a knife and set it aflame.

He hears the kitchen door opening, and knows without looking that Sebastian is there, wheeling out a tray full of tea and cookies. Smiling.

 _What is he to you?_

 _Nothing. Everything._

"I’m sorry," Ciel picks up one of her hands and squeezes it, and she turns her head to face him. Her dress rustles gently when she moves. "What were you asking?"

She smiles at him, in a way that seems to say _all right, I trust you_ , and never asks again.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to A for beta-reading. Title taken from a poem by Elizabeth Hughey.


End file.
